


If only night would last forever

by Elaine27



Series: Out of Time [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Fear of Discovery, Love, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Romance, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-14 19:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5756014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elaine27/pseuds/Elaine27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a time where homosexuality is a crime and money defines one's worth and future, two people have found each other against all odds. Separated by status and as dissimilar in prestige and wealth as two people can be, they meet in secret. Unwilling to spend their lives mourning for what they can never have, both seek comfort in each others arms, knowing that the night will end eventually and they will have to part again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If only night would last forever

**Author's Note:**

> I've read a lot of Victorian and Historical Mystrade AUs lately, and my muse seems to have picked up on that. This started out as a Victorian AU but I soon realised that although the London I imagined while writing was correct, the clothing and social views as well as social graces didn't fit into that time. Here, people are more narrow-minded and wealth automatically means a high status and prestige. Furthermore, it is seen as the duty of the eldest son (especially in families of status) to marry and maintain the bloodline.
> 
> Beta-read by the wonderful [ivefoundmygoldfish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/melonpanparade/pseuds/ivefoundmygoldfish).

_"I will vanish in the morning light; I was only an invention of darkness. ”  
_ \- Angela Carter **,** from “The Lady of the House of Love”

 

_November_

 

Time is precious. It stops for no one, nor does it wait for the one who chases after it to catch up. It flies by, and before you realise it, it's gone, leaving nothing but the distant feeling of loss in its wake. Unsure of what it is you have lost, you venture on, believing you'll find it again soon enough. It is only when you reach the end that you realise your mistake, for not everything that is lost can be found. An opportunity once missed, or even dismissed, is all too often gone for good. And at the end, you look back silently and count the opportunities you've let go to waste in fear of what might follow, believing in third chances you knew would never come.

People, who have lived their life constantly fearing they might be discovered and have therefore pushed away their dreams, are more in danger of finding themselves looking back with sadness and regret; their time gone by without use. While trying so desperately to fit into society's expectations, they give up happiness and bow to a life which, albeit safe, is unfulfilled and more like a cage than anything else.

It is, therefore, a rare occurrence should two lonely souls be able to overcome their fears and find each other when they need it most. That it should happen not once, but twice—just another sign that it is meant to be. And no insult, no whisper on the street, no act of malicious intent, can ever change fate's unwavering persuasion.

As the sun rises, dipping the grey streets of London in a yellow glow, the thin rays of light finding the window of a rundown house near the Thames. It is small and old, the wood of the door and façade in desperate need of paint, and the window glass milky and opaque. Beyond, sprawled out on the simple bed, limbs curled up under the white sheets, lie two men. Their breaths are even, their minds not yet disturbed by the harsh reality of the world, but deeply immersed in a world where the light of a new day doesn’t pose the end of a precious night.

They will wake, knowing every night could be their last; the danger of being discovered an ever looming shadow above them.

The light intensifies as the sun climbs the sky, higher and higher, until it is visible on the horizon, barely peeking over the rooftops of the city. Although the sun heralds the start of the day, it is still early and the streets lie in peaceful slumber, calm and quiet. Inside, the rays cast the room in a warm glow, and slowly, its two occupants awake.

There is that moment when one awakens where dream and reality mix to the point that distinction is impossible. One cannot tell what is real, nor do they feel the need. And so the shorter of the two, his hair more grey than brown and body lined with reminders of years of working with the police, tightens his grip on the other man, his face hidden in the hollow of his neck, as if ushering him back to sleep. And for a few, glorious seconds, everything is right in the world, and the shadow has yet to retake its ever looming position above them.

The moment, however, never does last long. For it is not in the power of dreams to stand up against the consistency of the day. One clings to it, only to have it slip through their fingers. And just like that, the two men startle awake, blue eyes meeting brown ones as the remains of their dreams vanish with the last traces of the night. Foreheads touching, they cling to each other, hands desperately clenching the sheets, as if they can stop time through their will alone.

But time doesn't stop, and the sky outside the tinged glass gains in intensity with every passing second.

Carefully, as if afraid the other might disappear any second, the dark haired, taller man raises his hand to gently trace his fingers down the side of his lover's face. The regret and sorrow in his eyes, edged deep into his soul over the many partings of the past, is a painful reminder of the forlornness of their situation.

"I have to go..." The words are whispered, and yet heavy with regret.

The other man smiles softly, a sad but reassuring smile to tell him he understands. "I know."

They have danced this dance so often that they know the steps without thinking. And when they part, neither of them ever dares to doubt their hands will soon meet again and their feet carry them away.

The taller man closes his eyes in defeat and before he can stop himself, he leans in to capture the other's lips.

The silver haired man sighs against the kiss. "Mycroft..."

In a rush of desperate need and emotion, Mycroft encircles his waist and draws him closer, deepening the kiss. The need to hold him forever, to never let go, becomes almost overwhelming as gentle fingers find their way into Mycroft's hair. He'd give him everything, if only they'd let him. There is nothing he wouldn't do, nothing he wouldn't give to be able to love him freely. His house, his money, his reputation. They could have it all, if it means he could give away his heart.

They pull apart for air, and Mycroft clasps his lover's hands to lay them over his heart. "I love you, Gregory. So, so very much."

All Greg wants is to cup his face and tell him he knows, but Mycroft will have none of it. Instead, he kisses his hands with a gentleness that causes Greg's heart to ache.

"You must know," Mycroft continues, eyes meeting his once more, begging him to see. "That I'd do everything to be able to show you just how much you mean to me, how much I love you."

"Hey," Greg interrupts, gently lifting his chin as Mycroft tries to look away. "I know," he whispers, pressing his lips to Mycroft’s again.

With one final touch of his lips to Mycroft's forehead, Greg pushes away, immediately missing the warmth as soon as Mycroft releases his hands. He watches as Mycroft stands and dresses with obvious reluctance. Layer after layer, once again he turns into the impeccably dressed man the world knows, fine silk and golden buttons leaving no doubt about his status and money. Nothing compared to the few shabby and worn clothes Greg has in his possession.

Although occupied with solid work as a police detective, Greg has to pay off the debt of his parents, the money that they'd needed to raise two children. What is left of his income that he doesn't see as essential to survive, Greg sends to his sick and widowed sister. Four mouths, after all, need more than one. And so he lives in a barely furnished and cold flat, a depressing place for him to crash after days without sleep, the grey walls only feeling like home in the few and rare hours he isn't alone.

As Mycroft brushes his curls of hair into place, Greg feels the familiar twinge of upset that Mycroft thinks it necessary to dye it. He's seen him with his natural ginger hair only once before, a long time ago when Mycroft was barely an adult himself. Although Greg had only a faded memory of that encounter, he knows it's nothing but beautiful, and not the flaw Mycroft seems to think it is.

His thoughts drifting back to that first fleeting meeting, Greg thinks of the Holmes Manor with its huge windows and velvet carpets. Warm and colourful and crying of old money, causing every visitor to immediately bow a little deeper. He vividly remembers the first and last time he'd felt the soft material beneath his feet, when he'd carried a limp, dark haired young man - more a child than an adult - over the threshold. Clad in expensive clothes that was worth more money than Greg had ever possessed, he'd gotten him off the street before someone decided to rob him of his shirt and life and carried him home. The trouble he'd gotten for leaving his post had not been worth the dismissing hand wave the butler had directed at him as he had been thrown out through the double doors, but Greg can't bring himself to regret having saved a soul.

Smooth hands brush over his face, effectively snapping him out of his thoughts. Mycroft, now fully dressed, is crouched in front of him, studying his face. Without a doubt, he knows exactly what his lover has been thinking.

"Everything," he repeats, his eyes open and unguarded. His eyes trace every line on his lover's face, the silver in his hair and the laugh wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, as he commits it all to memory. It could be days or weeks before they see each other again. Even longer if he has to leave London. And his fear that Greg might get injured, that he might return to a city without him, is unbearable.

"Go," Greg urges, the tightening of his hand in Mycroft's betraying his words. "Or they'll see you leaving."

Hearing the shame in his own words, shame that Mycroft could be caught with someone like him, Greg quickly tries to cover it, but Mycroft leans in for a brief, tender kiss.

That Gregory would be ashamed of himself tears at Mycroft, but it is true that he'd already stayed longer than was safe. For a second, Mycroft wonders what would happen if he stayed. If the Holmes household awakened without finding him in his rooms, or in his study at the Diogenes. He wonders how long it would take them to find him and what they'd do if they did. Sharing a bed with a man, kissing him, loving him.

Wrong, repulsive, perverted, illegal.

But it wouldn't be him whose life would be torn apart.

"Everything..." Mycroft whispers once more, eyes closed, before pulling away and heading for the door. He doesn't look back, afraid he won’t be able to leave if he does.

Slipping through the back door and out onto the street, Mycroft’s eyes are hard and cold. His mask of ice once again in place, Mr. Holmes stares out the cab window as it brings him back to the manor. No one has or will ever see the true emotion that lies beneath the so carefully crafted indifference, or the longing that tears his heart apart. Nor will anyone ever find love in the deep blue of his eyes. No one but one man. And he will never know that he is the only one.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoyed writing this and am already working on extending it into a series :D


End file.
